


god oh a-waiting

by Anonymous



Category: Homestuck, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:00:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28560228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Hubris swallows a man whole and spits him out alive. Shaken and spit-sodden and reeking of fish, but blessedly alive. To be alive, to live! There is no greater pleasure, to be sure, than that of one's existing." -Alexander HamiltonYou are almost certain Hamilton said that.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20
Collections: Anonymous





	god oh a-waiting

WILBUR: Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't think anyone was in here.  
DIRK: I'm sure. Come in anyway. You were going to.  
WILBUR: Yes, I...I probably was, wasn't I?  
  
There is a man standing in front of me. He is not a memorable man, particularly; he is tall, with brown hair and brown eyes, and wears a long hooded trenchcoat. He is made fascinating only by his definition, mediocre in all but the resolution of his polite and nervous face. Of course, I know what I look like. You, roughly, also know what I look like. But in tens of millions of words, I have never been correctly described more thoroughly than as a hard young man with hair like a majestic bird. It rankles. So, if only for a moment, I look at the unremarkable man and covet his mundanity. His name is Wilbur Soot. You already know what he looks like.

He has just been stabbed through the heart by his own father. Were I a simpler man, I'd draw a parallel.

And a six, five, four...

DIRK: (And a three, two, one-)  
WILBUR: So, what is this place?  
  
That's a great question. Until he asks, I haven't given it much thought. (That's my little joke. Warm up the crowd, get the juices flowing.) With some hesitance I decide that it should be a homely setting. Rummaging through his pompous inner monologue, I burrow for a place of fulfilled hopes. Somewhere to draw words from a man who has dealt, as of late, almost exclusively in seething quiet.

DIRK: Why, it's L'Manberg, of course.  
WILBUR: Right. No, right. Of course. The walls, my walls, my...my head hurts like hell. I'm so sorry. Who are you, remind me?  
  
Obviously I consider fucking with him. I wouldn't be me, otherwise. Some other facet of that me has sent him here for a reason, and he obviously expects me to work things out myself. Which is to say, himself. I could prostrate myself in that ridiculous uniform, address Wilbur as my rightful President, wring the full odious sob story out of him with flattery and wide eyes. But I don't think that will be necessary.

And what I don't think, I know.

DIRK: The name's Dirk. Dirk Strider. Well known throughout the univ-  
Nope.

DIRK: Throughout the everywhere, let's say conservatively, as a bastion of radical brilliance and all around good vibes. You've come to me to have a conversation.  
WILBUR:  
WILBUR: Well. You're a little bit up your own arse, aren't you?  
  
A part of him instantly regrets the playful snappiness. It must just be because he's so exhausted. Guilt and fatigue weigh down his muscles, twin inescapable burdens. In fact, Wilbur feels so cruel and so unreasonably characterized by aggression that he resolves to apologise profusely at the earliest opportunity.

WILBUR: What? No, I really don't want to do that. Get out of my head, you absolute shit.  
DIRK: Oh, come on!  
WILBUR: Plus, it's characterised. With an S.  
  
I am afraid to say that at this point I momentarily lose my cool. The man flips me twin birds of his own accord and affects a snarl of such grandiose indignance that even I am mildly impressed. Still. Irritation laces my next words in a way I am not proud of.

DIRK: What the fuck is the point of any semblance of narrative jurisdiction if about half the stooges around you are aware of it? Balancing?  
DIRK: Am I supposed to be nerfed by yet another insane asshole in a greatcoat? Third time this week, thank you so much. It's belittling. It's like putting child locks on a space shuttle. For the love of fuck, don't just stand there.  
  
He just stands there.

After a while, his narrowed eyes clear somewhat, and Wilbur Soot progresses from staring dreamily past me to glaring right at me. It's a welcome change from his pathetic earlier confusion; that simply put me in mind of Dave. The redwood trees above us wither and fade. The great hills to the south melt into the page. The burbling of the river stutters, once, and peters out. The illusion of physicality blurs and blots itself.

WILBUR: Right.  
WILBUR: You're going to tell me what the fuck is going on. You're going to tell me who Dave is. And then you're going to let me out of here.  
  
Spoiler alert; I won't.

WILBUR: Fuck off.  
  
Spoiler alert; I don't.

Instead, I wait until he's ready to speak to me again. Relative to you, the time that passes is negligible, and so functionally instantaneous. A trick I picked up long ago, from those more inclined to the hands of the clock and less to the hands that feed. We talk as something approaching friends, and all is well.

WILBUR: So, I'm not, like, a real person. I don't think. Hear me out.  
DIRK: Go on.  
WILBUR: I only exist sometimes, if that makes sense. It's something I find very strange, because I _know_ that I'm Wilbur Soot. I'm the disgraced ex-President of a nation called L'Manberg. There's this kid called Tommy, who might be my brother? Maybe? And he tried to help me, until he couldn't understand what I was trying to do anymore, because he's a sentimental little fool. But.  
DIRK: But?  
WILBUR: But I know that's not real. Sometimes I- _say_ things. That don't make any sense. I talk to something called chat, I talk about streaming videogames, I'm kind to my enemies. The time period we're all set in - I shouldn't even know what a videogame is! Or what a period piece is, for that matter.  
WILBUR: I think I might be just a character, and it hurts. It hurts pretty fuckin' bad.  
DIRK: You said earlier that your friend Tommy didn't understand what you were trying to do. What were you trying to do?  
WILBUR: Ha! It's a long story, I'll tell you that. There was an election, and I lost it, and now everyone's really very happy. Just put it this way.  
WILBUR: I'm of the persuasion that every story needs a villain.  
DIRK: Good man. Couldn't agree more.  
DIRK: You know, Wilbur, I suffer from a similar ailment. See, to most of the audience of this text I imagine I come across as an orginal character of reprehensible pretentiousness. To the very few of them with prior knowledge, I am also Dirk Strider.  
WILBUR: As you've said. I wish I knew what that meant, but I'll take your word for it. And what do you mean, this text? We're literally just talking.  
DIRK: Ah, but here's the kicker. We are not.  
DIRK: Dirk Strider is not real. He is, and thus I am, a fictional character from the webcomic _Homestuck_.  
DIRK: I am more than Dirk, nowadays. In a different and equal way, I highly suspect you are more than Wilbur. _Ceci n'est pas une pipe, non?_  
DIRK: This monologue will look nicer in prose, I imagine. Apologies for any resultant discomfort.   
  
Whilst my good friend Pawnee was uniquely situated to act as a vessel for the text she existed within and without, I think this text acts most fittingly as a vessel for you. Shaped by an audience, by tens of thousands of slack-jawed distant perspectives. It's whimsically fitting. You are, in essence, recorded entertainment. Your hopeless life choices and terrible misdeeds paint a horrific, mystifying picture that one can easily enjoy without guilt. Video _graphic_ , if you will. And therein lies the rub. 

I do not exist, and yet I speak and am heard. You exist, and yet you are silenced. Wilbur Soot, I have the power to self-justify my own existence. And you have the knowledge that you never, ever will.

Tertullian, who you may know as the father of Latin Christianity and a great contributor to my own personal ethos, would have called us Aeons of God Himself. I'm losing you; hear me out.

You, you bizarre mimetic echo of a real man's dramatic urges, are a kind of Sophia. Sophia, the revered and most base form of God, she who gave birth to the wretchedness that was physicality. Nobody ever blames Sophia, Wilbur. When Diogenes mocked Athens and held up to them his example of their so-called Defined Man, nobody was angry at the fucking poultry. Take comfort in the fact of your depiction.

And I, scripture made extant, exercise of the mind made scripted manifest? Well, I am Theletus, of course. The little-known, little-loved counterpart to Sophia's failure, and what Tertullian would have called perfection. It's important to note that this is not an elevation of my ego - that happened long ago. In many ways I very much am perfect. I am my Ultimate Self, a concept I assume you are unfamiliar with, and thus I achieve the nominal flawlessness of totality of self. A room of every good and bad person in the world, in every room, in every time, under every sky imaginable. And they are all me. Though open narcissism, I have been told, does not become me to my audience, and so I will concede a small point.

Valentinus, that most aptly-named theologist, a man after my own heart, would describe his own precious Thelêtos not as perfect, not as ultimate, not as nonpareil. He would call me that which is desired, that which is longed for in the eyes of all forward-looking men. A child who lived in independent self-sufficiency at the end of the world. A teenager who saved the universe in a series of beautiful battles. You find this pattern familiar already, I see. It ends with a man who did not know then, as you do, as I have tried in vain to remember, that every story is in dire need of a reliable villain.

Do you not see it, Wilbur Soot? The ability you lack, the knowledge I seek. The desire I represent, the wisdom you embody. The quilt of half-remembered tropes and improvised story beats that we both, at the spines of us, are. The words on a flat plane of Theletus; commanding, silent, loud. The words in the ears of the listener of Sophia; condemning, loud, and so very silent. I cannot help but speak to our audience, and they cannot help but hear you. Isn't that a little sad, Wilbur Soot?

Now. Call me an overstuffed séance, but I'm no stranger to multimedium storytelling. I've been a man of clay, a plaything of Prometheus, for longer than you can even fathom.

WILBUR: I'm gonna stop you right there, arsehole. I've sure been a man of Clay, Dirk. What the hell are you getting at? My...ow.  
DIRK: I suppose the point I'm meandering around is...  
DIRK: Do you believe in God?  
WILBUR: Singular god? Weird. You mean as in Prime?  
DIRK: Whatever. Your culture is as malformed as it is improvised. Let's say Prime, why not.  
WILBUR: I mean. Wow. That's a real doozy. It really depends on what you define as a god, then. I suppose server owners have the same kind of powers as people say Prime does, just more localised? My dad was never very religious, I dunno. He always said that if people genuinely thought making servers was some huge sin, maybe it wasn't Prime's fault that they didn't, y'know, pick up a football. Touch some grass.  
WILBUR: So no, I don't think I do. I think either you respawn or you run out of lives, whatever the admin sets, and then you run out of chances. And that's it.  
WILBUR:  
WILBUR: But that's probably mean. I just let Primers do their own thing, personally, I know Techno believes in the Channel and Tommy has a real on-and-off relationship with the Church-  
WILBUR: Oh, shit. Dirk?  
DIRK: Yeah? You done?  
WILBUR: You're not Prime, are you?  
DIRK: What you call Prime is a concept I would call simply God, and by that metric? I almost am. But no, I'm not literally Prime. You're not treading on any toes by denouncing the afterlife in front of me, don't worry.  
DIRK: Call this exchange a final religious spasm of your dying mind, if it helps you feel better.  
WILBUR: It doesn't.  
DIRK: Suit yourself.  



End file.
